


Alea Iacta Est

by mercutios



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7701052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutios/pseuds/mercutios
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire have gotten into a quickly escalating prank war at the school where they are teachers. They are each harboring feelings for the other, but instead of recognizing their emotions and communicating like adults, they resort to more and more complex practical jokes. All of Les Amis, and even some of the students, are dragged in to the conflict. Enjolras is trying to work things out, but the line between comedy and tragedy is very, very fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alea Iacta Est

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deanlovescastielswormstache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlovescastielswormstache/gifts).



> Set in an American school, because that is all I'm comfortable with. (Everyone just pretends all the French names are normal, I guess?)

“Good God, Enjolras, you’re soaking wet! What happened this time?”

“Courf, this is getting out of hand. He set a bucket of water on the top of my classroom door.”

“He- what, seriously?”

Enjolras glared at his friend and spread his arms, flinging droplets of water across the room. His drenched blond hair was stuck to his forehead, making him look more pitiful than angry.

Courfeyrac unsuccessfully tried to smother a laugh. “I’m sorry, but it’s just so cliché, isn’t it?”

“What am I supposed to do about this?”

“Just because I’m your friend and a guidance counselor doesn’t mean that I’m your therapist, Enjolras. Just talk to him! You’re a grown man!”

Enjolras slumped into the creaky wooden chair beside Courfeyrac’s desk and whined. “But he… he’s…”

Courfeyrac rested his elbows on the desk and met Enjolras’s gaze. “He is responding to the pranks you pulled on him. Last week you sat right here and were cackling with Prouvaire because you kept prank calling him on his classroom phone.”

“I only did that because he replaced my coffee with decaf!” Enjolras cried, slamming his hands onto the desk.

“Which he only did because you kept stealing his staplers and only returning them after the school day ended.”

“He switched our coats at three faculty meetings! That’s when it started!”

“Does that mean that you had to get him back every single time?”

“Well, I have so far,” Enjolras muttered.

Courfeyrac relented. “Come on, do you have a change of clothes?” Enjolras shook his head regretfully. “I’m sure ‘Ferre does. Students haven’t started arriving yet, you have plenty of time.”

As Enjolras marched back through the school wearing an unfortunately purple, elbow-patched cardigan (“My least favorite, that’s why I keep it in the back of the cabinet,” Combeferre had said.) over his still wet shirt, students began to flood the halls. He was about to escape into the relative privacy of his classroom when the teacher next door waved to catch his attention.

“Enjolras! There you are. I noticed a bit of a puddle by your door- how’s your morning been?”

“Good morning, Grantaire,” he replied with gritted teeth, noticing the smirk on the other man’s face, “I don’t suppose you called a custodian or anything like that?”

Grantaire smiled innocently, glancing at the curls plastered down around Enjolras’s ears and at the damp shirt beneath the borrowed sweater. “No, but I did put a roll of paper towels on your desk.”

“My thanks.” He stepped into his room and flipped on the light to see the full extent of the spill.

“Oh, and Enjolras?” Grantaire called from outside, and Enjolras reluctantly returned to him. “I believe the bucket is from Lesgles’ room, if you would be so kind as to return it to him. You know how he loses things. _Miserabile visu_.”

“You don’t have to use Latin in day-to-day conversation just because you’re a Classics teacher,” Enjolras snapped, like the water had washed off all his patience.

“And you don’t have to cry over the French Revolution just because you teach history, but here we are.” Grantaire fired back, just as a group of students approached.

Gavroche, among them, offered him a high five. “Nice burn!”

Enjolras, defeated and humiliated, retreated to plot revenge and teach his classes.

As the bell rang, Enjolras grabbed all the sticky notes he could find from his desk and hustled out to the parking lot. He knew which car was Grantaire’s- it was almost a daily routine, searching out the paint-splattered, battered old machine to see if he was at school yet. Now, he located the car and started smacking sticky notes on it at random, trying to cover the windows for maximum nuisance. He knew the linguistics department had a meeting, but his time was still limited. He heard giggling behind him and whirled around, but it was only a few students, watching quizzically as their history teacher pranked another staff member. Everyone knew that Enjolras rode a bike to school (he made sure they knew about the value of environmental conservation) so it was obvious he was making an effort to deface the car. He shooed them away and continued, cheeks burning. _Why is there so much paint on his car? Does he park in an experimental art gallery or something?_ Finally, he ripped the last sticky note from its pad and slammed it on the side view mirror before abandoning the scene. Grantaire was nowhere to be seen. Enjolras ran around the side of the building, bag bumping against his legs, to the bike rack.

It was empty. Taped to the metal bar was a little note that said ‘Alea iacta est’, complete with a little smiley face at the end. Enjolras snatched the note and crumpled it, scowling. The school grounds were nearly barren, with no place to hide a bike! He raced back inside the school building, but Grantaire wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Combeferre, however, was.

“’Ferre, have you seen Grantaire? Or my bike?”

The other man gave Enjolras a concerned look.

“Never mind. Could you take me home tonight?”

“Of course, but I’ve got to wait a bit for Feuilly to finish up with the art club.” The two friends wandered down the hallway. “So what happened?”

“Grantaire stole my bike. He left a note.” He pulled the balled-up slip of paper from his pocket and showed Combeferre, who grimaced. “And now I don’t know where my bike is, or where he is, or what’s even going on at this point, or…” he trailed off miserably, shrugging in Combeferre’s general direction.

Combeferre, always the good friend, understood and sympathized. “Two pranks in one day- this little joke war between the two of you is really escalating. You look stressed.”

Enjolras could only sigh. Combeferre put a comforting hand on his shoulder and they waited for Feuilly together. Finally the art and shop teacher emerged from his classroom, his copper skin smudged with ink, and the three of them walked out to the parking lot.

“What happened here?” Feuilly asked, bewildered, when they stepped outside. Enjolras groaned- sticky notes were strewn through the parking spaces, fluttering in the breeze and crushed into the pavement. Grantaire had retrieved his car.

“It was sort of me,” he said meekly, herding them towards Combeferre’s car, “And before you ask, I do not have the energy to clean it up, but we have a recycling club that should be here any minute.” He dove into the backseat of the car before his friends could say anything else. Struck mute with confusion and shock that Enjolras was, one, responsible for such a mess and two, not going to clean it up, Combeferre and Feuilly shared a strange glance and simply climbed into their seats.

They were on the road when the silence became too much for Enjolras to bear. “I covered Grantaire’s car in sticky notes,” he confessed.

“Ah,” said Combeferre, “before or after he took your bike?”

“At the same time, I think.” At that, Feuilly snorted, his dark eyes and freckles dancing. “I’m not sure I find this as funny as you do,” Enjolras pouted.

“It’s just that you’re so wrapped up in this, and you haven’t even tried to talk to Grantaire about it!”

“Well, he hasn’t talked to me, and he started it.”

“Grantaire’s motivations shouldn’t affect your actions! If ‘Ferre and I didn’t communicate with each other, and if we acted so childish and passive-aggressive, sharing an apartment would be unbearable!”

“We’re co-workers, not roommates.”

“And you know that’s beside the point,” Combeferre stepped in gently, “Try to tell him how you feel.”

He bit his tongue, trying to contain a wave of weary vehemence _. I’m angry! And tired, and bitter, and utterly confused! I hate this whole debacle!_ But Combeferre was right, after all, he needed to explain. “Fine. I’ll try to do something about it.” They pulled up in front of Enjolras’s apartment building. “Thanks for the ride.”

“I’ll get you in the morning, too. Good luck, my friend, and I hope everything works itself out.”

Feuilly turned around to face Enjolras, grinning broadly. “And if it doesn’t work itself out soon, let us know when you’re planning something so we can watch it happen!”

Later that night, Enjolras opened his laptop and started a new email draft.

_[Grantaire,_

_You are so obnoxious, and petty, and rude. I don’t know why you’re like this, but I hate it and I hate working with you and everything you do. You are the worst person I have ever met and this prank war is spiraling out of control. You started this, but you keep it going without attempting to apologize or explain. I just want it to be over, and I don’t care if it ends with you coming to your senses or you leaving this school. This is insufferable, unprofessional, and I cannot trust you in any way. -Enjolras]_

He groaned and shoved his computer away from him. He could never send such an explosive email, but venting helped a little bit.

The ride to school with Combeferre and Feuilly was uneventful, but Enjolras was tense and he missed his bike. His friends tactfully did not bring up the prank war or Grantaire. Or the bike. He got to his classroom without seeing his nemesis, and his day started to brighten a tiny bit. He could teach his classes, avoid the teacher next door, and spend his lunch looking for his bike in storage closets and equipment sheds. Maybe he could enlist Ferre, Courfeyrac, and the others to help.

The classroom door flung open and a student cried, “Mr. Enjolras!” He nearly fell out of his chair, but Gavroche was already talking at light speed and dragging him out of the room. “So I heard that Mr. Grantaire hid your bike, well my dad and I got here early and he told me to come get you, so I’ve been waiting out by the bike rack because I forgot that your bike was gone, but then Mr. Feuilly told me you were here so c’mon!”

Enjolras had to jog to keep up with the boy, but it wasn’t far to Bahorel’s classroom. He marveled at Gavroche’s boundless energy- ever since Bahorel had adopted the boy and his sister Azelma, Gavroche had gone from incorrigible troublemaker to chatty and engaged.

He stepped into his friend’s classroom and gasped. His bike was parked right in the front of the room, looking sort of like it was ready to give a lecture.

Bahorel came to stand by his side. “What do you say? You want it back, or should I let it teach my classes today?”

Enjolras turned to him, mouth still gaping. “How- how?”

“Grantaire, I suppose. Just like all the other jokes he’s played on you? I left my room unlocked after school yesterday, so I guess that’s why he put it here.”

“Thanks, really thanks so much, this takes away so much stress.”

“No problem,” Bahorel chuckled, clapping Enjolras on the back, “besides, I’m sure you have your hands full planning your next move. This whole thing is funny. We talk about it in the teachers’ lounge.”

“We?”

“You know. Me, Prouvaire, Joly, everybody else.”

Enjolras’s cheeks burned. Really? These dumb pranks were drawing that much attention? “Gavroche, would you help me take this to the bike rack? Thanks again, Bahorel.”

The student trailed after Enjolras as he self-consciously wheeled his bike through the hallways. “It doesn’t take two people to move a bike.”

“I know.” Once outside, he turned to Gavroche. “I wanted to ask your help- you’re in both mine and Grantaire’s classes, so you could really help me out here. Would you be willing to involve yourself in this joke war? There shouldn’t be any disciplinary repercussions, but if you somehow get in trouble I’ll defend you.”

“You’re asking me to help you prank another teacher?” He crossed his arms smugly.

“Well, yes, b-“

“Oh, I’m in. Totally. This is hilarious.” Gavroche laughed, offering Enjolras a fist-bump, which he returned hesitantly.

“All right. Meet me here tomorrow morning.”

The day passed with radio silence from Grantaire. Enjolras grew more and more on edge as the day passed, but no water fell on him and his bike was still in place at the end of the day. He wondered momentarily if he had somehow hurt Grantaire’s feelings. _No- I haven’t done anything offensive. Certainly nothing worse than what he’s done to me. There’s no reason to apologize_.

The next morning arrived without further incident, and when he pedaled up to the bike rack Gavroche was already waiting for him. “Grantaire isn’t here yet, I’ve been watching!”

“Good. Here, take these-“ Enjolras pulled four miniature alarm clocks out of his bag, “-and hide them in his classroom. They’re all set for different times, with a one-minute alarm on each. I don’t want him to catch me in his room. That would be suspicious.”

“Fantastic. I hope one of them goes off during my class!” He ran off with the clocks in his arms.

Thirty minutes into the first class of the day, Enjolras’s students were scrambling into groups to work on newly assigned projects. He wasn’t really paying attention to them, though; he was listening carefully for noises from the classroom next door.

There! A faint but incessant beeping, followed by Grantaire’s muffled voice. The beeping continued, and Grantaire became more aggravated. When it didn’t stop, Enjolras became to get annoyed as well and stopped listening. _Definitely a successful prank if it’s irritating me as well, and he can’t find it_!

Right before lunch, another alarm went off and he cheered silently. This time, Grantaire caught on more quickly, and desks squeaking next door made Enjolras think that Grantaire had his students searching for the source. Someone shouted, and Enjolras’s class turned towards the noise. Someone had probably found the alarm. “All right, back to your work!”

At the start of the next period, the third alarm sounded. Enjolras didn’t hear it go off, but he heard Grantaire’s shocked exclamation and nearly laughed out loud, savoring the thought of the _look_ Grantaire must have had on his face. This clock beeped for nearly the full minute before it was found, and Enjolras made a mental note to congratulate Gavroche on his clock-hiding skills.

The last alarm sounded exactly two minutes before the end of school bell rang. The noise must have confused Grantaire’s students, because suddenly Enjolras’s class heard the sound of a small stampede of students towards the door, and Grantaire calling them back. They all giggled, and Enjolras, satisfied, allowed himself to laugh with them. The alarm shut off only seconds later, signifying its discovery.

Grantaire must have known that it was the most recent prank, but he did not confront Enjolras that afternoon. The following morning, thirty minutes into class, the un-revealed alarm went off again. Grantaire yelled, and students collapsed into laughter. Next door, Enjolras smirked. The alarm beeped for sixty seconds- still unfound.

That afternoon, Enjolras received an email from Bahorel.

_[Enj,_

_Gav says to tell you, ‘ceiling tiles’. I don’t get it. -Bahorel]_

Enjolras really did laugh out loud then. The clock beeped on one more morning before Grantaire successfully traced the sound to its source. All seemed to be well, and Grantaire did not attempt retaliation. The weekend arrived, and Enjolras felt like he had escaped.

Monday arrived with the existential gloom of the week’s beginning and a steady cold drizzle. Enjolras arrived damp and cranky, and Grantaire’s good mood did not help him. Even the man’s dark curls seemed bouncier than normal, and Enjolras seethed over it. He secured himself behind his desk and tried to get a bit of paperwork done, even ignoring students who entered the room. When the bell rang, he finally turned his attention to the room. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” they chorused in response.

He blanched. “Excuse me?”

“Good morning, Your Majesty!”

It was Grantaire. It had to be. The next installment of the stupid, embarrassing prank war. Enjolras scanned the class and his eyes caught on Gavroche, hiding in the back row.

“Gavroche, would you please return to Mr. Grantaire’s classroom? I’m afraid you’re in the wrong class.”

“Okay, Your Majesty,” he replied, getting a laugh from the rest of the students. He grinned at Enjolras as he departed.

“All right, class, now that that’s over, let’s move on. We’ll be presenting those group projects today- I hope you’re all prepared. Does anyone want to go first?”

One girl raised her hand. “My group volunteers, Your Majesty!”

Enjolras’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “I’d prefer if you didn’t call me that.”

“Anything you say, Your Majesty.”

He sighed. Prank wars seemed to give the students immunity. He waved the girl and her group to the front of the class, and as they began their presentation, he vowed to say as little as possible that would require a response from this class.

His second class came and went with no students using royal titles, and he began to hope that Grantaire had only gotten to the first group. The third class, likewise, did not participate in the prank, and Enjolras began to relax.

When his fourth class entered the room, however, he remembered that this was when he actually had Gavroche in class, and he knew he would not catch another break. He watched the boy chatter with his classmates before the bell rang, and he knew- oh, he just knew- that he was getting the whole class in on the plan.

He waved a greeting to the class and launched right into his plan for the day, and didn’t stop until he needed a group to volunteer to do their presentation.

Gavroche raised his hand. “Uh, Your Majesty, I have a question?” The rest of the class tried to hide their laughter.

_And so it begins_. “Go ahead. And I’d rather you didn’t call me that.”

“Well, Your Majesty, about our group’s topic- we had some conflicting sources and…”

_Just this class_ , Enjolras told himself. _Just this one class and then I’m good for the rest of the day, the prank will be over, it’ll all be okay_. However, enduring the entire class period proved to be a challenge. Not all the students participated, but he noticed that whenever he asked them to stop, the next question would inevitably contain a ‘Your Majesty’.

By the end of the day, he had never felt so irritated; it was like having mental sand in a mental swimsuit. He slept heavily that night and woke up determined to have a better day.

“Good morning, everyone!” he greeted his first class of the day.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!”

His hopes of a better day came to a screeching halt. “If you continue this, I’ll be writing you up.”

He couldn’t really discipline the whole class, since it wasn’t actually disruptive to them- just him- and they weren’t unruly or otherwise acting out. And they knew it too, judging by the chorus of ‘Sorry, Your Majesty’s coming from all corners of the room.

When they were dismissed, Enjolras sank into his chair and covered his face with a sheet of paper. What could he do to get Grantaire back for this? He didn’t really want to involve the students.

His second class was good and calm, though, and he was much happier to see them.

“Good morning, everyone!”

“Good morning, Your Majesty!”

“I really don’t appreciate being called that, and it would be great if you guys would stop.” The admonishment worked for about five minutes, but several of the braver students worked it into questions and Enjolras knew when he was defeated. It was spreading. His third period was also on board with the prank, and Gavroche’s class kept it up.

Lunch seemed like freedom. Enjolras walked faster than normal to the teacher lunchroom, where several of his friends were already eating. Joly and Lesgles waved, and Feuilly patted him on the back in greeting.

“Hey, Your Majesty.”

Enjolras promptly turned around and went to eat in his classroom.

All of his classes were in on it, and after he left school, kids would call after him in the halls. The next day, it continued, and Enjolras glared at Grantaire when he passed him in the hallway.

“What’s wrong, Your Majesty?” he teased. Enjolras pointedly refused to reply and slammed his classroom door behind him.

Try as he might, he could not get his students to stop, so right before lunch he texted Courfeyrac that he would be dropping by. On the way to his friend’s office, he could barely keep himself from running down the hall.

“Courf?”

“What’s up, Your Majesty?”

“Please don’t even start.” Enjolras grabbed a seat, and then noticed that Combeferre was also in the room.

“Courfeyrac told me to come down here so we could all talk.”

Enjolras smiled. “It feels sort of like an intervention.”

“Maybe it sort of is?” Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair. “You know, you’re lucky I didn’t have an appointment with any students right now. As it is, you guys have got to leave if someone needs to talk to me, so let’s make this quick.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of is’?”

Combeferre shrugged. “Well, you’re spiraling into obsession. Just a bit.”

“What? I’m not obsessed.”

“You’ve stopped spending time with us to either think of pranks or to avoid Grantaire. That’s not normal. It’s consuming your life,” Combeferre said flatly.

“That’s silly, I haven’t changed my routine based on Grantaire.”

Courf gave him a nasty look. “You search for his car every morning.”

“That’s not weird! It’s just extremely recognizable!”

“He’s all you talk about. The pranks, his actions, what other people say. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you have a crush on him,” teased Courfeyrac.

“Courf, that’s ridiculous. I talk about plenty of other things. Like…”

“You skipped the social justice club meeting to prank call him. We had to improve an entire discussion about environmental justice, because that’s one of your special topics.”

“Oh.”

“You need to sit down, talk it out, and figure out what is driving the two of you to act like this,” Combeferre suggested.

Courf jumped in, “Or at least let me in on the plans, so I don’t sit here stressing over what you’re going to do next!” Combeferre shot him a look. “Okay, sorry. Not helpful, I know.”

“Enjolras, communication is key, and communication is where you’re failing. You can’t even explain your emotions to us right now.”

Enjolras whined, “It’s not that big of a deal! I’ve been writing vent emails. I just… don’t send them.”

His friends nodded sagely. “That’s a good start,” Ferre said, “Keep doing it, and you might realize where you’re coming from. And talk to us, if you need to, okay?”

“Of course. I don’t trust anyone more than you two.”

“Love you, man. Don’t do anything stupid, all right? Or, don’t do it without me, yeah?” Courf affectionately tousled Enjolras’s hair.

“You’re the king of stupid, you know?” Enjolras replied. Combeferre rolled his eyes, but they were all grinning.

Per the advice of his friends, Enjolras returned to his room and deleted his angry, unsent email. It was irrational and unfair, and didn’t adequately express his emotions. He began another email draft.

[ _Grantaire,_

_This has been an utterly exhausting series of events. I am drained, and tired, and angry with you. I hate that this petty prank war has spread to other faculty members and I am especially upset that students are noticing and becoming involved. It’s not appropriate for two adults to behave this way in public, let alone the workplace. I am fed up with your actions, but we need to talk. Perhaps if we could find a way to work through these issues, beginning with the times you swapped our coats during meetings, which started this entire melodrama. -Enjolras_ ]

He hovered over the send button, but he couldn’t bring himself to click it. He needed to edit the email, he told himself, not just fire off his unfiltered feelings. Anyway, he had to deal with more classes calling him ‘Your Majesty’ first.

Run ragged by the end of the day, he stopped by Bahorel’s room before he left. Gavroche was there, waiting for his adopted parent to be ready to leave, and Prouvaire was there as well, talking with Bahorel.

“Hello.” He braced himself to hear another ‘Your Majesty’, but none came.

“How are you, Enjolras?” Prouvaire asked warmly.

“Slightly frayed, if I’m being honest. Bahorel, I need to talk to Gavroche for a minute, are you busy or is this an all right time?”

“There’s nothing stopping you, go ahead!”

Enjolras sat in the seat next to the student and addressed him quietly. “Can you get this to stop?”

He smirked. “Maybe if I get some extra points on that group project.”

“Nice try, no bribes from me.”

“Don’t worry, dude. I can get everyone to quit. Do you know what you’re doing next?”

“I think I have an idea.” He turned to Prouvaire and Bahorel. “Do you think Musichetta would be willing to redirect all the packages from the front office to Grantaire’s room?”

Prouvaire grimaced. “I doubt it. She’s pretty serious about getting things done. She doesn’t let me take packages to the biology department anymore.”

“With good reason,” Bahorel teased, “I wouldn’t trust you either, if a skull went missing.”

“I borrowed it for my Hamlet unit!” Prouvaire was fighting back a smile, and within seconds he and Bahorel were laughing at each other.

Bahorel turned back to Enjolras. “I don’t think you’ll have any luck with getting the front office on your side. Musichetta is too close with Joly and Bossuet, who are Grantaire’s closest friends. I doubt she wants to get caught up in this whole thing.”

“Good for her, but now what am I going to do?”

“I’m sure Courfeyrac has some good ideas,” Prouvaire suggested, “He’s probably been secretly dying to get involved, but you haven’t asked him!”

Enjolras shrugged. “At this point, I just want to get even again.” He couldn’t stand the thought of seeing Grantaire’s smug face, with his smirk and his dimples and his eyes…

Prouvaire and Bahorel grinned. “I’m sure there’s something!”

That night, Enjolras got a text from Courfeyrac.

[ _so glad I’ve been recruited. Grantaire won’t know wht hit him. Be ready 2moro morning!]_

Enjolras grinned. Maybe, just maybe, Courf’s plan would allow him to win the prank war once and for all! With that thought still in his mind, he slept very soundly and arrived at school the next morning in one of his better moods.

_Today_ , he thought, _there will be no avoiding Grantaire. There will be only victory_. He stationed himself outside of his classroom door, jovially greeting all the students and barely hearing when they addressed him as ‘Your Majesty’. Grantaire arrived with a thermos of coffee and slouched against the doorframe. Enjolras glanced at him “There’s paint in your hair.”

“Oh? Cool. Thanks.” He ran a hand through his hair, knocking small purple flakes to the ground.

Enjolras was mesmerized by the falling pigment. “What’s it from?”

“I teach some night art classes.”

Enjolras nodded, but he was distracted by the sight of a barbershop quartet approaching. Grantaire checked over his shoulder and saw them coming too. “What…?”

Courfeyrac, accompanied by Prouvaire, Marius Pontmercy, and Cosette the librarian, all of whom were dressed in striped vests and straw hats, stopped directly in front of Grantaire.

“Roses are red,” Courfeyrac sang.

“Red, red, red,” the other three harmonized, with Cosette on the highest note.

Violets are blue-“

“Blue, blue, blue-“

“And this singing telegram/ Comes from a secret admirer-“

“To youuuu!” Enjolras had to give them credit. They sounded good for less than a day’s notice before performing.

_Wait, what? Secret admirer_? _Who said anything about a secret admirer_?

“The message says you’re handsome/ You’re funny and you’re cool-“

Prouvaire picked up the melody. “If they could tell you that in persooooon/ They wouldn’t be a tool!”

Marius and Cosette stepped forward with a duet. “This secret friend may just be nervous/ Or perhaps they’re very shy/ But here’s one other option/ They’re one oblivious guuuuuy!”

“-or doll, that is,” Courfeyrac added, “Roses are red-“

“Red, red, red,” sang the others.

“Violets are blue-“

“Blue, blue, blue-“

“Now discover who this lover is/ And make your dreams-“

“Come truuuuuuuue!” They ended the song with vigorous jazz hands. Then, just as quickly as they had arrived, they departed.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire muttered into his coffee.

Enjolras could not agree more. His face was burning red, and he holed up in his classroom to let the crimson flush diminish. An alarmingly loud and public declaration of love from a secret admirer?

He admitted, it was an amazing prank on Courfeyrac’s part, but this stroke of genius hit a little closer home than he was expecting. Grantaire was kind of handsome. And he had a good sense of humor, as long as it didn’t involve practical jokes. Before the pranks started, Enjolras had often laughed at Grantaire’s jokes when they were out in the hallway together. And the man was a good teacher. The students respected him a lot. Enjolras’s thoughts kept turning back to Grantaire’s casual, bright smirk.

The revelation was dizzying. Oh _no_.

In what was becoming a habit whenever Enjolras felt particularly strong emotions, he began to draft another email.

[ _Grantaire,_

_I am deeply sorry for my actions the past few weeks. You have not deserved my poor behavior and inappropriate choices. I have not been professional or honest and I feel like I need to rectify this as soon as possible. I haven’t been sure what has compelled me to act in such a manner towards you, but recently I have come to believe that my annoyance and ill treatment of you stems from some unrecognized emotions. I don’t have any idea how I could broach this topic, since we seem to be sworn enemies now and this would be such a huge turnaround. However, I may have feelings for you. This is a surprising development for me, so I am not exactly sure what kind of feelings they are- not unpleasant ones, at least. I am trying to figure this out without talking to Courfeyrac, because he would probably laugh. This I know: we need to talk. We need to stop these escalating practical jokes. And I need to explain myself to you before I say something I regret out of unfiltered emotion. -Enjolras_ ]

He texted Courfeyrac to let him know that he would be stopping in during lunch again and then dove headfirst into teaching his classes.

At lunch, they had a good time laughing about the song and dance. Enjolras periodically found himself fixated on his feelings of panic and vulnerability, but pushed that aside for the time being and made an effort to amuse himself. Enough time had passed between the events of the morning and the current conversation, so the feelings from earlier felt muted, not as intense and real. Less scary. Courfeyrac didn’t need to know about those. They lost track of time, and he realized that his class had returned to the classroom three minutes previously.

“Gotta go, Courfeyrac. Thanks again, that will be hard to beat. Hopefully, it’ll be impossible!”

He rushed back to his room, but when he turned the doorknob, it didn’t budge. He jiggled it- still nothing. _Did I lock the door_? He felt for his keys, but they weren’t in his pockets. _If I locked myself out_ … From the other side, he could hear muffled laughter.

When Enjolras peered through the small window on the door, his jaw dropped. All his students were watching him, grinning, from the other side of a barricade of desks which jammed the door shut. He knocked pointedly on the door, but none of them moved.

“All right, joke’s up. We need to start the lesson.”

“Just part of the game!” Thank goodness they had stopped calling him ‘Your Majesty’- Gavroche had spread the news that that joke was over.

 “Take down the barricade, please.” He had trouble containing his anger- not at the students, but at the engineer of this debacle. Right now, he would do anything to keep Grantaire away from him. “Class, let me in. This is ridiculous,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

Gavroche gave him a thumbs-up from inside the classroom, but again, no student moved.

“Not funny. We’re behind and this is wildly inappropriate behavior!” He shoved the door, but enough desks were piled up behind it that nothing even budged.

Grantaire sidled out of his classroom. “Having trouble?”

Enjolras whirled around. “Is this a _game_ to you?” he screamed.

“Well-“

“This is not a fucking joke anymore! What were you thinking- _were_ you thinking at all? How dare you create this fiasco. It was bad enough when these pranks were small and irritating and petty, and for some reason I played along, but now? This is disruptive, and it’s involved far too many people! It’s gone too far and we are teachers. We teach! How am I supposed to do my damn job with you getting my classes to revolt? I expected better, even from you, but now I know I never should have expected anything but idiocy and spite from you, Grantaire. You could never do better! I hate this! I hate what you’ve started, I hate this escalation, I hate that other teachers and students are a part of it, I hate my own feelings, I hate all of it. I hate your actions, I hate the way you look, I hate you! I hate you, Grantaire!”

Grantaire’s face was expressionless. “I see,” he said, his voice measured and cold, and then he retreated to his room. Having heard the outburst, Enjolras’s class removed the barricade and returned quietly to their seats.

The day progressed, and a lump grew in Enjolras’s throat.

The next day arrived, and Enjolras crept to his classroom in shame. Luckily, he did not see Grantaire. There were no pranks, but there was no conversation either. No one seemed to be willing to talk to Enjolras, even his students. In the halls, everyone avoided eye contact. Enjolras didn’t mind. He didn’t really want to talk.

The tense calm marched on all day and the next as well. Grantaire was nowhere to be seen and Enjolras started to wish he was invisible.

As he ate lunch alone in his room, an email notification pinged. He pulled it up- it was from Grantaire. His fingers began to tremble as he hastily clicked it open.

[ _E,_

_I’m shitty at expressing my emotions in real life but ever since the beginning of this I think I’ve had some sort of twisted, embarrassing crush on you. God, I feel like one of my students typing that. Dumb and naïve and marinating in a pool of my own angst. I didn’t know how to talk to you, since you were always so collected and poised, so I kept switching our jackets at meetings so I could talk to you, but it all backfired and now you hate me and what else should I really have expected from my efforts? It’s not like I’m good at this._

_If u ever see this email Joly/Bossuet sent it bc I think they have my password, please forget it immediately and don’t look me in the eye because I’m embarrassed and I’ll probably go on the run to avoid u. Mea culpa_.]

 Enjolras flew out of his chair and ran to Combeferre’s room. His closest friend was in the middle of teaching, but saw the half-strangled look on Enjolras’s face and excused himself for a moment.

“Ferre, I fucked up.” Even at a low whisper, his horror was obvious.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow, totally unsurprised, and pulled out his phone.

“I got an email from Grantaire, I’ve been totally wrong, I don’t know what I’m doing, I made an ass of myself, there are feelings involved, who are you texting?”

“Courf. Do you need to talk to him? Can you show me the email?”

“NO!” Enjolras yelped.

“Just breathe, all right? Take a deep breath. Okay. Yes, you are very, very in the wrong. What do you need to do to fix it?”

“How am I supposed to communicate now? How? How?”

“Find him. And tell him. Write it down and recite it if you have to. Or send an email.”

Enjolras tried to talk, but only made a pitiful choking noise in the back of his throat. Combeferre laughed gently, laying a dark hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You regret your actions, but stewing in your own misery does you no good. You’re all about change and progression- go change something here. And walk slowly on the way to your classroom, because you’re shaking.” He wrapped Enjolras in a careful hug, which was more comforting than any of the words.

On the way back, he saw Courfeyrac quickly walking down the hall, coming back from Enjolras’s classroom. “Why… why were you in my room?”

“I got a panic text from Ferre about you and assumed that’s where you would be. I was wrong, whoops. You doing all right?”

Enjolras shrugged. Courfeyrac patted him on the shoulder and went back to his office.

There were maybe five minutes before his students returned to class, so Enjolras opened a new email window and started to draft an apology. He had only typed Grantaire’s name into the text box before he noticed something slightly off.

His Drafts folder was empty. In a fresh panic, he opened the file to discover nothing at all. His mouth went dry as he went to the Sent folder instead. Sure enough, his most recent draft to Grantaire was sent. _Courfeyrac_. It had to be. He had just been in Enjolras’s room.

He buried his face in his hands and screamed silently. Grantaire knew! He saw everything, but Enjolras had still not apologized for his horrible outburst, because the email had been written before that.

He had to talk to Grantaire. Today.

When his class returned from lunch, Enjolras was too distracted to teach. “Free period, find something to study and keep the noise level down.” He had to figure out what to say when he saw Grantaire again. It had to be right. It had to solve every single problem created through the prank war.

When the final bell rang, he bolted out the door right behind his students, running hard to reach the parking lot. Where was that battered, paint-covered car? There. And Grantaire- he must have dismissed his class slightly early- was already walking towards it.

Enjolras ran faster. “Wait!”

Grantaire turned around and saw him, but did not stop. If anything, he walked faster.

“Don’t go! Please! Wait!” He was maybe five feet behind when Grantaire unlocked his car and opened the driver’s side door like a barrier between them. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire considered the words for a minute, and Enjolras desperately willed him to hear the sincerity in them. Then he met Enjolras’s gaze with a flinty look. “I don’t know if you mean that. Your little tirade, and then you try to be nice over email?”

“I wrote that before the barricade… incident. Courfeyrac sent it, I never did. I had it in my drafts. But it’s more correct than what I yelled at you. I promise. I’m so sorry. I’ve been such a hypocrite this whole time, and clueless, and horrible.” Grantaire didn’t look impressed. “Besides, I got yours, too.”

All the color drained out of his face. “No. No way.”

“Uh… yeah?”

“I am going to _murder_ Joly or Bossuet. Whichever one of them found that. No. Oh, God, no-“

“Um… I think it’s okay.”

“Of course it’s not okay? What are you thinking?”

Enjolras gestured vaguely. “Well, you know, in the emails… we know we don’t hate each other…? At the very least, anyway.”

“And this isn’t another prank. You’re not trying to get me to give in or anything.”

“Grantaire, it’s real. That email was my unedited thoughts. It’s real. I don’t hate you. I don’t want to be enemies.”

“You don’t hate me?” His voice was tiny, and hopeful.

Enjolras nearly cried in relief. “I don’t hate you. I hate that I said I hated you. I didn’t mean it. I absolutely don’t hate you. In fact, I-I… might even like you?”

“Enjolras, I like you too.” Grantaire closed the car door.

“Can you forgive me, though?”

“Yeah. You’re forgiven.”

They crashed into each other in a hug full of relief and new beginnings.


End file.
